The Amulet of Samarkand

side, in proud black lettering, were painted the words SQUALLS AND SON, GROCERS OF CROYDON, TASTY COMESTIBLES FOR SOCIETY—and to my great delight, it appeared as if Squalls and Son themselves were sitting in the cab. An elderly man with a bald head was at the wheel. At his side sat a chipper youth wearing a green cap. Both looked eager and well spruced up for their big day; the old man's head seemed to have been buffed until it shone.
    The field mouse flexed its muscles behind its ambush stone.
    The van drew closer, its engine rattling and growling under the bonnet. I checked the skies—no blackbirds or other dangers. All clear.
    The van drew abreast of the copse, out of sight of the distant Heddleham gateway.
    Both Squalls and Son had wound down their windows to catch the pleasant air. Son was humming a happy tune.
    Midway past the copse, Son caught a slight rustling noise from outside the cab. He glanced to his right.
    And saw a field mouse whistling through the air in a karate attack position, claws out, hind legs foremost—right at him.
    The mouse plopped straight through the open window. Neither Squalls nor Son had time to react. There was a whirl of inexplicable movements from within the cab; it rocked violently to and fro. The van swerved gently and ran up against the dirt bank at the side of the road, where its wheel skidded and slipped. The engine petered and cut out.
     
    A moment's silence. The passenger door opened. A man who looked very like Squalls hopped out, reached back in and drew out the unconscious bodies of Squalls and Son. Son had lost the majority of his clothes.
    It was the matter of a moment to drag the pair across the road, up the bank and into the depths of the copse. I hid them there under a bramble thicket and returned to the van.[2]
     
    [2] Faquarl would have argued that it was more expedient simply to devour them, while Jabor wouldn't have argued at all, but just done it. But I find that human flesh makes my essence ache. It's like eating bad seafood—too much accumulated grime per mouthful.
     
    This was the worst bit for me. Djinn and vehicles just don't mix; it's an alien sensation to be trapped in a tin shroud, surrounded by the smells of petrol, oil, and artificial leather, by the stench of people and their creations. It reminds you how weak and shoddy it must feel to be a human, requiring such decrepit devices to travel far.
    Besides, I didn't really know how to drive.[3]
     
    [3] To date, the only experience I'd had of driving had been during the Great War, when the British army had been camped thirty miles outside Prague. A Czech magician, who shall remain nameless, charged me to steal certain documents. They were well guarded and I was forced to pass the enemy djinn by driving a staff ambulance into the British camp. My driving was very bad, but at least it enabled me to complete my disguise (by filling the ambulance with each soldier I knocked down en route). When I entered the camp, the men were rushed off to the hospital, while I slipped away to steal the campaign plans.
     
    Nevertheless, I got the engine started again and managed to reverse away from the bank into the middle of the road. Then onward to the crossroads. All this had taken scarcely a minute, but I admit I was anxious: a sharp-eyed sentry might well wonder why the van was taking so long to clear the trees. At the crossroads I slowed, took a hasty look around, and leaned toward the passenger window.
    "Quick! Get in!"
    A nearby bush rustled frantically, there was a wrenching at the cab door and the boy was inside, breathing like a bull elephant. The door slammed shut; an instant later, we were on our way, turning right along the Heddleham road.
    "It's you, is it?" he panted, staring at me.
    "Of course. Now get changed, quick as you can. The sentries will be on us in moments."
    He scrabbled around on the seat, ripping off his coat and reaching for Son's discarded shirt, green jacket, and trousers. How smart this outfit had been five minutes before; now it was all crumpled.
    "Hurry up! They're coming."
    Across the fields from both sides, the sentries approached, hopping and bounding, black rags flapping. The boy pawed at his shirt.
    "The buttons are so tight! I can't undo them!"
    "Pull it over your head!"
    The sentry to my left was approaching fastest. I could see its eyes—two black ovals with pinpricks of light at their cores. I tried to accelerate, pressed the wrong pedal; the van shuddered and nearly